


Matrix

by Dreaming_of_a_White_Fox



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Amnesia, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Immortality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-13
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-27 12:56:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12081486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_of_a_White_Fox/pseuds/Dreaming_of_a_White_Fox
Summary: Merlin doesn't remember, and when his reincarnated friends finally find him…it's too late. He's too far gone.





	1. blue eyes

**Author's Note:**

> its just a thing that i happened upon, prolly wont continue

  Merlin remembers, from a very long time ago, about how his father died. He’d given him a wooden carving of a dragon--simple, but endearing, and sad. The scene had been dark and rocky. A cave, probably. He didn’t know. It’s a ghost of a memory and he can’t even be sure if he trusts it. Mostly because he can’t remember growing up or getting there, and his mind has lied to him before.

  He doesn’t know why or understand it all that much, but his psychologist says that it might be a way to cope with childhood trauma. Merlin doesn’t know if he can believe that, purely because he felt so old and he’s forgotten everything.  _ Everything _ . He couldn’t remember his name until about three weeks ago, and he’s been suffering from the aftermath of amnesia for five years. The name,  _ Merlin _ , is a name he does feel an affinity with, but…he feels estranged from it. It doesn’t feel like he should be going by Merlin. It left him paranoid and worried that he’d be found by someone important, and they’d be hurt.

  “Perhaps someone from your adolescence,” his therapist says when Merlin speaks up about it. “You say you don’t remember your teenage hood as well. Those times are closer.”

  Merlin blinks away the memory, rubbing away sleeplessness from his eyes. He hasn’t gotten a good night’s rest in the weeks he’s learned his name. He feels everything in him deteriorating. He can’t remember the last time he had good dreams, or if he ever had any. Everything is nightmare-ish. Meadows and beautiful forests full of the dead, but the dead are more like ghosts who love him dearly. He really doesn’t understand any of it, because it haunts him in a way that feels natural. It feels like a part of him. It feels like he is the haunt.

  The apartment he lives in is plain. But when one enters his bedroom, there is paint everywhere and drawings everywhere else. He’s lost count of the times he’s torn down his walls and plastered them again, or used his carpet and shoes to make art and torn those up to replace them with new carpets. Paint isn’t his life; it’s his free time, and he doesn’t have anything else to do. He’s got money. Lots of it. But he doesn’t know where it comes from and he doesn’t want to know.

  It’s another day of art from his dreams that brings him to the store. He’s browsing cold-scale colors, because what he dreamt of had been a time of blue-eyes. And he sees extremely familiar blue eyes that he can’t shake from what he sees in just a split second of eye contact. He’s pretty sure he’s seen those eyes before. The woman’s surprise at seeing his face had been a bit of a surprise for him as well. And her stare lingered on him. Even when he doesn’t look, she stares, and he ducks out of sight and avoids her for the rest of the fifteen minutes he’s in the store. He buys a few blues, greens and a new white along with an easel board; it’s not gigantic but it’s big enough to probably count as a small desk.

  He walks home, and keeps an eye out for that woman. Her staring leaves him uneasy and he doesn’t like those types of feelings. They leave him with the same feeling learning his name did. He knows when he might reach another emotional peak. This could be it.

  But this could also be him over-thinking. He has yet to see the woman again and he isn’t at his one hundred percent.  Returning home seems to be good and easy-going until he sees that woman. Again. She’s on the stairs and he only manages to recognize her because of that distinct hairstyle she had when she stared at the store.  He feels nerves shake his hands. They're too familiar, and he hates it.

   He locks his apartment up tight and turns off the lights. It's only bright in his bedroom, and it's the brightest room. He feels eyes on him from the corners of the room, and he has to turn every few minutes of the first hour of work. Eventually, he gets into the microscopic work of the blue eyes, dark lashes and brows and porcelain pale skin. It's femme, and it's familiar, and the way it stares back in his mind's eye is disturbing to say the least. He doesn't understand it; he hates them, feels betrayed by them, but he also feels this old endearing pain that'd come from a long time ago.

   "It might just be an echo of what you've felt towards this person," his therapist suggests. It's the morning after he finished the painting. He didn't sleep for more than a few hours. She smiles amiably regardless of noticing his exhaustion. "That's good, isn't it? Or do you not feel good about it?"

   Merlin remains steady and thoughtful, but he also remains truthful. "I dunno, really," he replies. "I hate them. They scare me."

   "Yet you say they're hanging on your wall," she states.

   He nods. "True," he agrees. "But…I also liked them. The way I envisioned them was warm."

   "Perhaps the echo you feel is what makes you hate them," she says philosophically.

   Merlin doesn't disagree.

   The next passing days roll by a bit smoother the more he draws this specific pair of blue eyes. They're small details, doodles really, along with partial paintings and angles. He's smeared some away for the sake of making room. It proves for an interesting wall. He knows he'll need to redo it in a while…if he ever gets over this odd new obsession. He isn't sure if he should be worried for the woman or himself, because he knows he should be plumming with concern in general. He's never had such an unbelievably strong fixation on specific eyes before. But then again, it's not like he's been painting his whole life. It's barely been two years, and while he may be pro enough even the fact that he  _knows_   _how to paint a person so damn realistically in six short hours_ scares him shitless. He doesn't feel safe doing such intricate art. He sticks to simpler things. Or, at least, he tries to. The skill is frightening and he doesn't know where it comes from. Like the money…and the woman…and his name…and the memory of his father. The list can go on.

   He doesn't leave the house. He's pacing, and he feels agitated. Merlin feels wary and thin-hearted. He feels a breaking point arriving. He wants it all out.

   The dark-haired youth just nearly blacks out in a fit of frustration and self-loathe. He feels more self-blame than any other self-depreciating emotion, honestly, and his therapist only knows because it's what his amnesia has produced.

   Next thing he knows, Merlin is sitting. His right leg is folded in, and his left is laid out in front of him covered in a red. He's alarmed, of course, because it's a bright red that resembles blood far too much for his comfort. Upon further investigation, he finds that it's just an ombre. A circular ombre. He feels appreciation. Mostly because he'd been frightened that the red on his leg had been self-harm. The walls all around him are a new plaster, partially painted over with a thin white, and the clock says 05:48. It's early. He probably didn't sleep. He can feel it in his back, his joints, his eyes, his neck. He can't hold himself up, and he feels lonely. He hates it so damn much, and for the briefest of seconds he desperately wants to black out again. But then he wouldn't be able to see the beauty in the world. Or the blue eyes, at least. He can feel them staring from his left.

   He looks up and over towards the direction. Yes. It's the woman with blue eyes. Porcelain skin. Dark hair, dark brows. Perfection in a physical form. It's uneasy.

   "Oh…um," she manages upon seeing the red-and-white paint splatters on his cheek bones and his attentive eyes. "Um. I'm sorry. It's just that I heard a ruckus in here. You were home but you weren't answering. I got worried."

   "You just walked in?"

   "U-um…ye…yes. I did, actually. I'm super sorry."

   Merlin gives it a thought before he shrugs it off. "You're new?"

   "I am, actually. How do you know?"

   "Only my neighbors hear me."

   She blinks in slight curiosity and realization. "Oh, yeah. I moved in from across the hallway. The flat had been cheap."

   Merlin smiles a little, but he doesn't say anything.

   "Are…are you why…? I don't mean to be rude! It's just…" Her eyes scan the bright room. "Well."

   He shakes his head. "No, it's true. I'm why. I usually take my room apart and paint the walls every few months and it usually gets loud."

   "That's bearable."

   "I'm a mental patient," he points out blatantly. "They get scared of me. Bad neighbors usually make for a cheap living. There are some drug dealers in the building if you were wondering, by the way. I wouldn't recommend dabbling with them because they take financial advantages. You should be smart."

   "Oh, uh. Thanks."

   "You're welcome. You look familiar. Were you staring at me the other day? It was aggravating."

   Her cheeks flush in shame and embarrassment. Merlin doesn't respond to it. "O-oh…yes. I was. I'm terribly sorry for that, too…I'd seen you around before since I was browsing the many open flats. I thought I'd catch you an have a chat. I really do apologize if I disturbed you in anyway."

   "Yeah, staring like that usually throws me off," he states. "You'll learn."

   "I already have."

   He smiles his appreciation, but it's weak and doesn't stay for very long. "Tell me your name."

   "What?"

   "Introductions are mandatory for neighbors at the bare minimum, no?" he asks. "I'm…Merlin."

   She smiles and gives a small, respectful curtesy. "My name's Morgan," she replies. "Short for Morgana."

   "Unique," he remarks.

   "Same to you. Is your name inspired by the legend?"

   "What, that old magical man who raised King Arthur?"

   "Uh, yeah. That one."

   "Dunno. I suffer from amnesia. It's been five years. I can only recover echoes."

   Morgana gives him a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry, I'll keep that in mind."

   "Don't apologize. Wasn't your fault, I think."

   "What?"

   "Your eyes are horribly familiar, Morgana. I know I've seen them somewhere. I dunno where, but they carry a heavy weight."

   "Did I do something wrong?" she asks.

   "You would know," he points out. "You don't suffer my conditions. Not like I do."

   "Well, I know I didn't do anything amnesic-inducing…"

   He just chuckles.

   "Anyways," she concludes awkwardly. "I…I should get going. I believe I've overstayed."

   This time, Merlin's smile stays. "As do I," he agrees. "You know your way to the door. Lock it behind you. Knock next time."

   She blinks in slight surprise before she nods in understanding.

   "Oh, and Morgana."

   "Yes?"

   "Don't worry. I don't hate you. I'm just terrible at social situations. Just come over for some…beverages, or whatever. Tea. Coffee. Vodka."

   She laughs a little. "Thank you," she replies. "I will see you later."

   "Yeah."

   And she leaves.

   Merlin is fine with it.


	2. 2:59 AM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :0 i didnt expect so many people to like the first chapter. thanks for reading. feedback is appreciated :)

  “Why is it because of you?”

  Merlin tilts his head upwards, away from the mug of lukewarm tea that’s been cradled in his hands for the past fifteen minutes. It’s been untouched. The drawing is finalized, at a two-ish-quarters view of Morgana’s entire face. It’s been three whole weeks since their first meeting, and he hasn’t seen her at all until their foretold tea-and-meet thing happened. She found it odd, and he found it…not-odd, for a lack of wording.

  “Why is what because of me?” he inquires.

  “The whole…cheap apartment and few neighbors thing,” Morgana says. “Why is it because of you? You’re a resident, the owner has every right to evict you because of the complaints.”

  He puts the mug to his lips thoughtfully, staring at the drawing. “Probably because of my mental illnesses,” he says. “I dunno. I think someone had a chat with the landlord.”

  “Did the chat involve fists?”

  He looks at her and raises a questioning brow. “That’s very innuendo-y of you, Ms Morgana,” he comments. Her cheeks flush. “It wasn’t a porno.”

  “N-no! I’m talking about fighting!” she corrects, obviously flustered. Merlin merely smirks and sips the half-touched tea. “You’re so dirty-minded.”

  He doesn’t give any sort of mirthful response that time, because it’s true. He doesn’t plan to push it until they had sex, of course. That’d be too much and too soon. He justs shrugs his shoulders. “I’ve got no idea,” he states. “Why are you asking me of all people? I know nothing.”

  She sighs. “You really shouldn’t keep that mindset up,” she points out.

  “You’re not my mom.”

  “I would hope not. But, Merlin, it’s damaging to your recovery,” Morgana states. “You know enough, don’t you?”

  He keeps staring ahead. “Dunno,” he replies. “Why do you care, anyways?”

  Morgana smiles. “I think it’s a good idea to remember and know the answers to your questions,” she explains. “Without them, we’re all lost.”

  “You sound like you know what I’m talking about.”

  “I…don’t. Not on the personal scale, but my brother’s husband had amnesia. It was a shock to all of us because of how he had reacted. We were all so close to him, and he was close to us, and he just…forgot. Treated us like we were strangers in the room,” she says a bit sadly. “Who was there when you woke up?”

  He shakes his head. “Me,” he mutters. “No one else was there.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” she says.

  Merlin sighs. “He must’ve been lucky,” he continues.

  “How do you mean?”

  “He was surrounded by reminders,” the amnesiac says pointedly. “He had his husband and you. I only had a shell of my former self.”

  “Is that not enough for you?”

  He gives her a look. “I don’t think looking inside to remember is ever a good idea,” he snaps.

  Morgana doesn’t say anything to that. She looks up at the painting, though, taking a drink of her tea. “Why’d you draw me?”

  “Your eyes.”

  “That’s it? Because the work is detailed. That means devotion, right?”

  “Skill, too.”

  She smiles dryly. “Yes, obviously.”

  Merlin does, too, but he also shrugs apathetically. “I don’t really know, to be honest,” he says genuinely. “My psychologist says you might be from an earlier part of my life. Or someone who looks and maybe even sounds like you, at least.”

  She nods in understanding. “Hey, guess what.”

  Merlin looks at her. “What?”

  Her dry smile becomes genuine and almost happy. “I’m a _reminder_.”

  “…Oh.” It doesn’t make sense, though, so he leaves it at that. But he isn’t sure if he likes that idea, because the way she says it just give him the creepiest vibes he’s—probably—in a long time.

* * *

   The next time Merlin feels watched, it’s because Morgana has an old man visiting. His hair is a crisp snow white, thin and brittle with age, and his posture is curved at the base of his neck. Merlin watches them from his cracked door. It lets out the chemical smell paint produces. It’s another complex drawing, and he’s been working intently on it since Morgana left.

  “Was this old man recognizable?” his psychologist asks when he tells her all about it. Her smile is slight, but he can see it, and he knows instantly that she sees this as a milestone. A rarity, really, because his name and Morgana’s eyes have been the biggest in the past five years.

  “A little,” he murmurs. “He looked like an uncle type, though.”

  “Have you spoken to him?” she inquires.

  “…No.”

  That is a lie. Yes, of course he spoke to that familiar old man. He’d introduced himself as Richard G. Wilson. Why he had involved the first letter of his middle name, Merlin may never know. He keeps thinking on it like it’s something deep when it actually might just be the way Mr. Wilson introduces himself to people.

  “Where do you live, young ‘un?” Richard G. Wilson asks when the conversation prompts it.

  “The open door right down the hallway is where I am,” Merlin tells him. “I’m only a few doors down. Are you…Morgana’s uncle?”

  “I’m her grandpa,” he states. “Her _step_ -grandpa, at least. Her grandmama remarried.”

  “Ah, I see,” he murmurs. “She’s a nice girl. Whoever raised her did good.”

  He smiles like an old man. “Very good,” he agrees. “Has she been any trouble?”

  Merlin almost hesitates in shaking his head. Because she’s troubled _him_ , just not enough to…well, cause actual trouble. If anything, she’s been helpful. “No, she’s sweet,” he says. “Are…you moving in with her?”

  “Ah, no. I’ve got my own home,” he says, “and a nice lady to help me around. I just got out of surgery a month or so back. For my bad hip.”

  “I see. Getting better?”

  “Yes, plentifully seeing as I’m able to visit my granddaughter,” he replies thankfully. He smiles, gleeful and squinty. “I will see you around, yes?”

  Merlin nods. “Yeah,” he states. “Drop by, if you want to. Just knock. I don’t really go out much.”

  He smiles and nods before he retreats into the apartment Morgana lives in.

  The therapist nods with a slight smile. “I see,” she says. “Do you plan on talking to him?”

  Merlin shrugs. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replies. “I’m still trying to remember more on Morgana’s eyes.”

  “What kind of progress have you been making there? You told me about that painting you made all those weeks ago. Have you changed it, added to it?”

  He brightens up a little and nods. “Yes, actually, I’ve added a tint of shimmery green, aqua green and blue eye shadow,” he informs her. “That…seemed formidably suitable for those eyes. I don’t really know why.”

  “Another memory?”

  “Yeah.”

  Not to much a memory as it is a dream, though. He keeps seeing those specific pair of eyes in a dream. The background is kinda blurry, but there’s blobs of brown, green, yellow and some seasoned orange. He doesn’t recognize it, and it’s only her eye’s glance repeated over and over before another part of his dream comes to life. Ish. He makes it more alive than ever when he draws the scene out. Telling people about it, psychologist or not, gives it more realism than he likes.

  But then again, he isn’t thrilled by its consistent repetitiveness. If he wakes up, it’s always at 2:59 AM. Even when he goes to bed at an early time, like 3 PM or 5 PM, he stays asleep only to dream about that one glance and wake up at 2:59 AM. To say the least, he’s been getting the best sleep because of it but he isn’t sure if he likes starting out his mornings, from weekday to weekend, on that note.

  “Tell me more,” the psychologist says with a graceful smile. “Does it mean anything?”

  “I…dunno. It feels kinda bad, though.”

  “How so?”

  “Like the great evil is coming. Something prophesied.” He sounds so sure about it. Internally, though, he’s feeling a bit self-conscious. It’s an uneasy feeling to have the thought boil at the seams of his mind. All the same, the psychologist nods in interest. Her dark eyes brighten up a little and her face almost pinches in a thought train. “Does that sound weird?”

  She smiles and shakes her head. “No, actually,” she responds, truthfully and genuinely. “It sounds perfectly normal to me, as a matter of fact. If anything, I think you’re improving.”

  He frowns.

  “Yes, Merlin, I do indeed. Just follow your heart. It knows best.”

  “Okay…I will. Thank you.”

  Her smile merely widens, and later that night, Merlin sees a new dream of that same woman in a red dress, frowning, at exactly 3:00 AM. Because he wakes up at 3:01 AM, and it feels far too weird to be _normal_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but progressive. i hope you enjoyed.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is appreciated :) thanks for reading


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